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charleygirlTitle: Jack In The Green 2/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1954
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A train journey to Banbury, and a family reunion...
Chapter One
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER TWO
As I was a-going to Banbury
Ri-fol-lattity-oh
As I was a-going to Banbury, I saw a fine codling apple tree
With a ri-fol-lattity-oh
- Oxfordshire Nonsense Song, performed by Magpie Lane
Our meeting with Mycroft did not go well.
Holmes, furious that one of the criminals he had worked so hard to apprehend had somehow escaped with no explanation from the police as to how, had argued long and hard with his brother over the matter. It was quite clear that Mycroft knew far more about the situation than he was prepared to admit, but he stood firm and refused to answer Holmes’s questions. In the end he said ominously,
“If you do not let this drop, Sherlock, you may find yourself in an awkward situation, Doctor Watson, too. Put the whole thing down to experience and forget about it, that is what I advise.”
“And if I do not?” Holmes countered.
“Then I would not be surprised to hear that an official presence has called at Baker Street to put it to you more forcibly. Be sensible for once in your life and give in gracefully. You cannot win every time.”
I will confess to not liking the implication of those words one little bit, so it was with some relief that I boarded the afternoon train to Banbury at Marylebone Station with a sulky Sherlock Holmes in tow. It seemed a very good idea to be away from London and the most unsatisfactory results of the case that had precipitated his breakdown.
During the journey he said very little, beyond repeating his long-held assertion that the country was infinitely more dangerous than the town. I still could not agree with him upon that point. In my experience, crime was just as likely to be found in both places, and neither had a greater share of the danger which always seemed to accompany it.
It was early evening by the time we pulled into Banbury station, and we still had to take the branch line to Hope Barton. I was feeling rather weary myself, and when I glanced at Holmes he was leaning heavily upon his walking stick, his bag at his feet.
“Shall we put up in a hotel here for the night and go on in the morning?” I asked, wondering whether two long train journeys in the space of a few days might have been too much for him.
He turned to look at me and smiled for the first time since we had spoken to Mycroft. “By no means. Your cousin will be waiting for us, and I am anxious to meet this interesting lady.”
***
I was grateful that during our sojourn in Cornwall the weather had improved, the unseasonable damp drifting away to be replaced by the gentle warmth of spring. It was on a balmy evening that our train pulled into the tiny halt of Hope Barton, the sun caressing the red brick of the railway buildings and the scattering of stone houses beyond.
Waiting for us in a dog cart was a man of about my own age with bristling salt and pepper whiskers and a cheerful gleam in his eye. He jumped down upon spotting us and waved his hat in the air.
“Watson!” he called. “Good God, I’d never have known you!”
“It has been twenty years,” I said, shaking the fellow’s hand warmly. “You haven’t changed, Sam. It’s good to see you.”
“Has it really been that long? Dear Lord! And this must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said, turning to my friend, who for once stood politely waiting to be introduced. “Samuel Foster - Watson’s cousin Molly is my wife. It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Holmes.”
“You are the squire’s steward,” Holmes remarked in reply.
Samuel blinked for a moment, and then smiled broadly. “I’m pleased to see that John hasn’t exaggerated your talents. I am indeed, though I’m at a loss as to how you know, unless - ” He glanced at me, but I shook my head.
“Molly’s letter did not mention your promotion,” I assured him.
“You are quite obviously a man of business from the ink stains upon your fingers and the shine upon your right shirt cuff,” said Holmes. “My first supposition had I met you in town would have been that you were a clerk or an accountant, but in a community this small there would be little call for either. You wear tweeds with a familiar air which suggests you rarely have need for more formal attire. The only occupation in such a village to combine an outdoor life with that of a man of figures is a steward.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Samuel, quite obviously impressed. “I take my hat off to you, Mr Holmes; you’re one of a kind.”
Holmes accepted the praise with one of his swift smiles.
“How is Molly?” I asked as Samuel loaded our bags into the cart and we all climbed aboard. “I confess to having lost touch somewhat over the last few years.”
“She’s well. Very well. You know her – little ever gets her down. As long as she has her books she’s quite happy.”
“I was a little surprised by the invitation. Not that it was not welcome,” I added hastily.
Samuel laughed. “I was surprised too, if I’m completely honest. We’d settled down as usual, Molly organising the May festivities for the children as she does every year, and me occupied up at the hall most days, when she suddenly informed me that she’d asked you to stay! I’m delighted to see you again after all this time, but it came as something of a bolt from the blue, I can tell you.”
“Is your wife in the habit of acting upon impulse like this?” Holmes asked.
“In her younger days, frequently. You must remember the time she decided to take in those gypsy children, John – I think it was just before you went off to Afghanistan.”
I nodded, recalling that I had stayed with Samuel and Molly for a few days before leaving for Southampton. “She has changed, then?”
“Mellowed, I should say. She doesn’t devise those hair-brained schemes any longer. Saves them for her work. My wife, Mr Holmes, is a professional writer,” said Samuel proudly. “Best impulse of hers, that one, sending her manuscript round the London publishers. She reasoned that it worked for other authors, so why not for her?”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea. What does she write?”
“Novels for women. You know the sort of thing: star-crossed lovers and a happy ending.”
Holmes glanced at me with a smirk. “It would seem that the romantic impulse runs in your family, Watson.”
“She’s followed your stories avidly,” Samuel continued, “Has The Strand ordered specially.”
“I’m flattered. I wish I had known of her writing before, then I could have returned the compliment,” I said honestly.
“I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it. Marvellous imagination has my Molly,” Samuel told Holmes.
“I looked forward to meeting her. She does indeed sound like a remarkable woman,” my friend replied.
“Now’s your chance,” I said as the cart turned through the gates of the house I recalled as Melville Hall. An Elizabethan pile set well back in rolling parkland, its estate buildings were clustered some distance from the main house, close to the village. The steward’s dwelling was on the edge of the estate, not far from the gates and the lodge, a modest house of local stone, with a pretty little garden to the front and a working plot and small stable for one horse behind. It had changed little since I had seen it last, not long after Molly and Samuel’s wedding, when they were living outside in the village.
Standing at the gate of the house was a woman I would have known anywhere. The passing of the years might have added lines to her face and touched her corn-coloured hair with silver, but the rosy cheeks and brilliant blue eyes were just the same as they had always been. She stood upon the bars of the gate like a child, her paisley shawl flapping un the light breeze, a huge smile creasing her features.
“John!” she called, waving as we drew up before the house. I jumped down from the dog cart as fast as my leg would allow, and she threw open the gate to fling her arms around me. “Oh, it has been too long!”
“Far too long. I am a terrible correspondent.”
“You have been busy.” She drew back to look at me. “That moustache makes you look very distinguished, I must say. Thank you for coming. I hope that I have not dragged you away from anything of importance.”
“Nothing at all,” I assured her. “We have in fact just been in the West Country. A much-needed holiday for us both.”
Molly looked over my shoulder, and her eyes widened. I turned and saw that Holmes had climbed down from the cart and come up behind me, and now stood leaning upon his stick, idly examining the rambling roses which grew over the garden wall.
“Molly, allow me to introduce you to my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I said, disentangling myself from her embrace. “Holmes, this is my cousin, Mrs Molly Foster.”
As he was wont to be when the fancy took him, Holmes was charm itself. He bent quite gallantly over Molly’s hand, saying, “I am delighted, Mrs Foster. Thank you for including me in your invitation.”
“I am so pleased you accepted, Mr Holmes. Won’t you both come into the house? You must be tired after the journey.” Molly recovered from her brief surprise at my friend’s - no doubt for one who was familiar with him from my writings somewhat unexpected - behaviour and led the way up the garden path to the front door. There were wooden frames propped up in the hall which reminded me of trellis – when I commented as much, Molly laughed. “Oh, they are for the Maying on Monday. The children will deck them with flowers.”
“You are a teacher,” aid Holmes.
“Was a teacher. I devote my time to my writings now. The income is a little greater, though there is more effort in the work.”
“Yes, I believe that is often the case.” Holmes looked around him as we hung up our hats, his keen grey eyes taking in every detail of the hall, the parlour and the view from the window. Only once we were seated and Molly plied us with tea and cake did he say, “Of course – you are Mary Quinn!”
Molly looked surprised, but then she smiled. “You are quite correct, Mr Holmes, Mary Quinn is my pseudonym. However did you guess?”
“Mrs Foster, I never guess. You described this house quite precisely in The Vale of Tears, did you not?”
“I didn’t know you had a taste for romantic fiction, Holmes,” I said, smirking at him over the rim of my teacup.
“It pays to be informed in my business, Watson,” he replied, shooting me a glare.
“You are right, Mr Holmes. I draw from my surroundings and my experiences,” said Molly. She put down her cup and looked seriously at us both. “I am glad that John’s tales of your powers are true, as I did have an ulterior motive in inviting you here.”
A satisfied smile settled upon Holmes’s face. I sighed inwardly. “I had surmised as much. What has happened?”
“Nothing quite yet,” Molly said, “but I am worried that there will be a murder here in the next few days.”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1954
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A train journey to Banbury, and a family reunion...
Chapter One
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER TWO
As I was a-going to Banbury
Ri-fol-lattity-oh
As I was a-going to Banbury, I saw a fine codling apple tree
With a ri-fol-lattity-oh
- Oxfordshire Nonsense Song, performed by Magpie Lane
Our meeting with Mycroft did not go well.
Holmes, furious that one of the criminals he had worked so hard to apprehend had somehow escaped with no explanation from the police as to how, had argued long and hard with his brother over the matter. It was quite clear that Mycroft knew far more about the situation than he was prepared to admit, but he stood firm and refused to answer Holmes’s questions. In the end he said ominously,
“If you do not let this drop, Sherlock, you may find yourself in an awkward situation, Doctor Watson, too. Put the whole thing down to experience and forget about it, that is what I advise.”
“And if I do not?” Holmes countered.
“Then I would not be surprised to hear that an official presence has called at Baker Street to put it to you more forcibly. Be sensible for once in your life and give in gracefully. You cannot win every time.”
I will confess to not liking the implication of those words one little bit, so it was with some relief that I boarded the afternoon train to Banbury at Marylebone Station with a sulky Sherlock Holmes in tow. It seemed a very good idea to be away from London and the most unsatisfactory results of the case that had precipitated his breakdown.
During the journey he said very little, beyond repeating his long-held assertion that the country was infinitely more dangerous than the town. I still could not agree with him upon that point. In my experience, crime was just as likely to be found in both places, and neither had a greater share of the danger which always seemed to accompany it.
It was early evening by the time we pulled into Banbury station, and we still had to take the branch line to Hope Barton. I was feeling rather weary myself, and when I glanced at Holmes he was leaning heavily upon his walking stick, his bag at his feet.
“Shall we put up in a hotel here for the night and go on in the morning?” I asked, wondering whether two long train journeys in the space of a few days might have been too much for him.
He turned to look at me and smiled for the first time since we had spoken to Mycroft. “By no means. Your cousin will be waiting for us, and I am anxious to meet this interesting lady.”
***
I was grateful that during our sojourn in Cornwall the weather had improved, the unseasonable damp drifting away to be replaced by the gentle warmth of spring. It was on a balmy evening that our train pulled into the tiny halt of Hope Barton, the sun caressing the red brick of the railway buildings and the scattering of stone houses beyond.
Waiting for us in a dog cart was a man of about my own age with bristling salt and pepper whiskers and a cheerful gleam in his eye. He jumped down upon spotting us and waved his hat in the air.
“Watson!” he called. “Good God, I’d never have known you!”
“It has been twenty years,” I said, shaking the fellow’s hand warmly. “You haven’t changed, Sam. It’s good to see you.”
“Has it really been that long? Dear Lord! And this must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said, turning to my friend, who for once stood politely waiting to be introduced. “Samuel Foster - Watson’s cousin Molly is my wife. It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Holmes.”
“You are the squire’s steward,” Holmes remarked in reply.
Samuel blinked for a moment, and then smiled broadly. “I’m pleased to see that John hasn’t exaggerated your talents. I am indeed, though I’m at a loss as to how you know, unless - ” He glanced at me, but I shook my head.
“Molly’s letter did not mention your promotion,” I assured him.
“You are quite obviously a man of business from the ink stains upon your fingers and the shine upon your right shirt cuff,” said Holmes. “My first supposition had I met you in town would have been that you were a clerk or an accountant, but in a community this small there would be little call for either. You wear tweeds with a familiar air which suggests you rarely have need for more formal attire. The only occupation in such a village to combine an outdoor life with that of a man of figures is a steward.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Samuel, quite obviously impressed. “I take my hat off to you, Mr Holmes; you’re one of a kind.”
Holmes accepted the praise with one of his swift smiles.
“How is Molly?” I asked as Samuel loaded our bags into the cart and we all climbed aboard. “I confess to having lost touch somewhat over the last few years.”
“She’s well. Very well. You know her – little ever gets her down. As long as she has her books she’s quite happy.”
“I was a little surprised by the invitation. Not that it was not welcome,” I added hastily.
Samuel laughed. “I was surprised too, if I’m completely honest. We’d settled down as usual, Molly organising the May festivities for the children as she does every year, and me occupied up at the hall most days, when she suddenly informed me that she’d asked you to stay! I’m delighted to see you again after all this time, but it came as something of a bolt from the blue, I can tell you.”
“Is your wife in the habit of acting upon impulse like this?” Holmes asked.
“In her younger days, frequently. You must remember the time she decided to take in those gypsy children, John – I think it was just before you went off to Afghanistan.”
I nodded, recalling that I had stayed with Samuel and Molly for a few days before leaving for Southampton. “She has changed, then?”
“Mellowed, I should say. She doesn’t devise those hair-brained schemes any longer. Saves them for her work. My wife, Mr Holmes, is a professional writer,” said Samuel proudly. “Best impulse of hers, that one, sending her manuscript round the London publishers. She reasoned that it worked for other authors, so why not for her?”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea. What does she write?”
“Novels for women. You know the sort of thing: star-crossed lovers and a happy ending.”
Holmes glanced at me with a smirk. “It would seem that the romantic impulse runs in your family, Watson.”
“She’s followed your stories avidly,” Samuel continued, “Has The Strand ordered specially.”
“I’m flattered. I wish I had known of her writing before, then I could have returned the compliment,” I said honestly.
“I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it. Marvellous imagination has my Molly,” Samuel told Holmes.
“I looked forward to meeting her. She does indeed sound like a remarkable woman,” my friend replied.
“Now’s your chance,” I said as the cart turned through the gates of the house I recalled as Melville Hall. An Elizabethan pile set well back in rolling parkland, its estate buildings were clustered some distance from the main house, close to the village. The steward’s dwelling was on the edge of the estate, not far from the gates and the lodge, a modest house of local stone, with a pretty little garden to the front and a working plot and small stable for one horse behind. It had changed little since I had seen it last, not long after Molly and Samuel’s wedding, when they were living outside in the village.
Standing at the gate of the house was a woman I would have known anywhere. The passing of the years might have added lines to her face and touched her corn-coloured hair with silver, but the rosy cheeks and brilliant blue eyes were just the same as they had always been. She stood upon the bars of the gate like a child, her paisley shawl flapping un the light breeze, a huge smile creasing her features.
“John!” she called, waving as we drew up before the house. I jumped down from the dog cart as fast as my leg would allow, and she threw open the gate to fling her arms around me. “Oh, it has been too long!”
“Far too long. I am a terrible correspondent.”
“You have been busy.” She drew back to look at me. “That moustache makes you look very distinguished, I must say. Thank you for coming. I hope that I have not dragged you away from anything of importance.”
“Nothing at all,” I assured her. “We have in fact just been in the West Country. A much-needed holiday for us both.”
Molly looked over my shoulder, and her eyes widened. I turned and saw that Holmes had climbed down from the cart and come up behind me, and now stood leaning upon his stick, idly examining the rambling roses which grew over the garden wall.
“Molly, allow me to introduce you to my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I said, disentangling myself from her embrace. “Holmes, this is my cousin, Mrs Molly Foster.”
As he was wont to be when the fancy took him, Holmes was charm itself. He bent quite gallantly over Molly’s hand, saying, “I am delighted, Mrs Foster. Thank you for including me in your invitation.”
“I am so pleased you accepted, Mr Holmes. Won’t you both come into the house? You must be tired after the journey.” Molly recovered from her brief surprise at my friend’s - no doubt for one who was familiar with him from my writings somewhat unexpected - behaviour and led the way up the garden path to the front door. There were wooden frames propped up in the hall which reminded me of trellis – when I commented as much, Molly laughed. “Oh, they are for the Maying on Monday. The children will deck them with flowers.”
“You are a teacher,” aid Holmes.
“Was a teacher. I devote my time to my writings now. The income is a little greater, though there is more effort in the work.”
“Yes, I believe that is often the case.” Holmes looked around him as we hung up our hats, his keen grey eyes taking in every detail of the hall, the parlour and the view from the window. Only once we were seated and Molly plied us with tea and cake did he say, “Of course – you are Mary Quinn!”
Molly looked surprised, but then she smiled. “You are quite correct, Mr Holmes, Mary Quinn is my pseudonym. However did you guess?”
“Mrs Foster, I never guess. You described this house quite precisely in The Vale of Tears, did you not?”
“I didn’t know you had a taste for romantic fiction, Holmes,” I said, smirking at him over the rim of my teacup.
“It pays to be informed in my business, Watson,” he replied, shooting me a glare.
“You are right, Mr Holmes. I draw from my surroundings and my experiences,” said Molly. She put down her cup and looked seriously at us both. “I am glad that John’s tales of your powers are true, as I did have an ulterior motive in inviting you here.”
A satisfied smile settled upon Holmes’s face. I sighed inwardly. “I had surmised as much. What has happened?”
“Nothing quite yet,” Molly said, “but I am worried that there will be a murder here in the next few days.”
TBC
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-22 11:07 am (UTC)I have to say, the mental picture of Holmes sitting on a train reading a women's love periodical is probably the funniest image I've seen in a loooong time...
no subject
Date: 2008-06-22 12:21 pm (UTC)Of course, he will make an attempt to explain it away... ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-28 10:33 pm (UTC)excellent, humourous yes
but the narrative is very disciplined too.:)
sidebar - your version of holmes makes me think of Brett
and his "Bleat! Unmitigated bleat!" while gleefully snaffling
the problem pages, confidentials and society gossip from the papers and periodicals.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-08 05:51 am (UTC)I'm always pleased when someone says they can see JB through the writing, as he's always my model when I'm characterising Holmes.